Spring...It's Spring! by Nancy M Bell

 

To find out more about my books click on the image above.   

It's finally Spring here in Central Alberta. I know that on the west coast the trees are in blossom and the tulips and daffs are glowing. It seems Spring comes to different parts of Canada at different times for sure. In Southern Ontario the lilacs and tulips would be blooming by Mother's Day and the peonies wouldn't be far behind. Here, my peonies don't bloom until late June or early July. 

It's raining today on the dry dusty prairies. Which is cause for joy. It has been dry for so long, even the snow melt was whisked away by the strong winds. The top six inches of soil needs to be moist so the crops can germinate and flourish. In comparison to the growth of wheat, barley and canola my little garden worries are pretty tiny. Besides, I can water my garden, without irrigation pivots and a water source it's pretty hard to water hectares of grain crop. So today, I'm doing the happy dance for the rain and for Spring.

The Mayday tree in the yard has come fully leafed over the last week and the tiny flower spikes are waving in the breeze, soon to break out into white spiky florets that will attract the honey bees and the birds. Hollyhocks are  the first to brave the uncertainty of a Central Alberta Spring and they are raising their broad leaves to the sun and rain, fighting off the strong winds. Rhubarb is growing in the northeast corner of the yard which gets the most early sun in the year. It will actually be ready to harvest a bit soon. It will be so nice when the fruit trees here blossom and the lilacs by the house scent the air.

Birds are everywhere, fighting over seeds and nesting materials. And, I saw my very first Sandhill Cranes this Spring. They were migrating and I came across a flock of them twice. I had to do a double take as I assumed they were geese at first, but nope. Cranes! They sound different as well when they fly, but the ones I saw were earthbound scavenging in a grain field. I am so used to the sound of Canada Geese which is what I encountered at our old house. But here, the Grey Geese and swans go through and their voices are all different to my ears. 

So wherever you are and whatever stage your Spring is at.... Enjoy the transition from winter into Spring and the lengthening days. We are climbing the slope of Light up to the Solstice which is when we begin the slow slide back toward the longest night in December. Cherish your journey, because it is yours alone.

Until next month stay well, stay happy.

      

Where to Set Your Story by Victoria Chatham

 

TO BE RELEASED SEPTEMBER 2025

All stories have a setting. Some are instantly recognisable, others are not. One of my favourite authors is Rosamund Pilcher, who set many of her stories in Cornwall, the English county that dips its toe into the Atlantic Ocean. The first line of her book, Coming Home, tells you this, but in a charming way:

'The Porthkerris Council School stood halfway up the steep hill which climbed from the heart of the little town to the empty moors which lay beyond.'

Lee Child, another of my favourite authors, leaves you in no doubt of his setting in the opening of Oneshot:

'Friday. Five o'clock in the afternoon. Maybe the hardest time to move unobserved through a city. Or maybe the easiest. Because at five o'clock on a Friday nobody pays attention to anything. Except the road ahead.'

The setting anchors the story in time and space, providing a sense of reality for the reader. The author is responsible for further solidifying that setting by engaging the senses. If it is an indoor setting, such as a house or a building, where is the character located? What furniture might they have to move around? What can they see, hear, and feel? I often close my eyes and visualise it, typically typing as I move from hallway to stairs, from scullery to dining room. The devil is in the details, so all the details I ‘see’ are typed. What time of day is it, and what part of the year? Where does the light fall, and what shadows does it create? How does that affect the colour palette of the décor? Being specific usually holds a reader’s attention, especially if it appeals to the senses.

Shakespeare wrote, ‘Let me count the ways.’ OK, he was writing Sonnet #43, but that phrase could just as easily refer to creating settings as to declaring love. In As You Like It, he also wrote, ‘All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players.’

While the Bard waxes poetic, authors are not so different in creating the stage or setting and moving characters around in that landscape. As much as I love creating characters, I also enjoy creating their settings. For my Regency romances, my characters have followed the social round from someone’s country seat to London, then on to the spa towns of Brighton, Bath, Cheltenham, Buxton, and Harrogate. While there were others, these are the most easily recognised, particularly Bath, for those who enjoy Regency romance. Being such popular cities, many of which have changed little since their inception, street plans are readily available online with some digging into each city’s archives.  

Typical town plan

I have been torn between using real-life locations for my contemporary stories and creating a town because I’m writing fiction. This is where I combine fact and fiction. I take a location I know and fictionalise it. That way, I can still write with a measure of conviction that might otherwise be lacking. Readers invariably sense a weakness, and I do my best to make my fictional settings as real as possible. I mix up English village names if my setting is in England, and I’m sure there are many more fictional ranches in Southern Alberta than in reality.

Fall colours in Southern Alberta

Another aspect of setting is designing the houses in which my characters live. I need to understand how they move through these spaces and what keeps the upstairs household members separate from those below stairs. Even with my ranch houses, I approach the same considerations. After designing one ranch house, I knew almost every log and stone in its construction, but I could not picture the roofline. I phoned a local architect’s office, explained my dilemma to the receptionist, and asked if any of the architects there would be willing to assist. The following day, I received a call from a gentleman intrigued by the process of building a house in a novel. We scheduled an appointment, and when he examined my floor plan, it didn't take him long to add a roof to it. Job done, but our conversation about the intricacies of writing a book continued well beyond the one-hour slot he had allocated me.

My current work in progress is set in a place I know well, but I have fictionalized it out of respect for the residents. Whether they recognise it or not remains to be seen when A Murder in the Meadow debuts this coming September.

Victoria Chatham

  AT BOOKS WE LOVE

 ON FACEBOOK

 MY WEBSITE

 

Rainforest Writers Retreat ~ A Little bit of Heaven

 

This is my latest novel. The first offering in BWL Publishing Inc's Paranormal Canadiana Collection.

I spent a few days in early March at the Rainforest Writers Retreat at Lake Quinault in the Washington Rainforest. It is a wonderful magical place and to spend 4 days surrounded by other writers and just soaking in the creative juices was amazing. It's a pilgrimage I try to make every year, but lately it hasn't happened as often as I would like. 

I fly to Portland OR and meet my dear friend. Then we road trip up to Lake Quinault where we meet up with the other writers who are taking in Session 3 of the retreat. Patrick Swenson (Fairweather Press) hosts the retreat which runs for 4 weeks in late February and into  mid March. It is such fun, chasing tree squids and enjoying the raucous Cabin Party on Saturday night. I usually managed to get in about 20,000 words, but this year I didn't have a ms on the go as my latest novel (see above) released on March 1. So instead, this year I took in more of the social aspects and didn't spend most of the time in my room glued to my computer. And this year I also managed to write some poetry. 

I got to be a bar fly on Saturday night- enjoying laughs and some new cocktails : Sidecars, green tea shots (which incidentally had NO green tea in it at all.)

I let the pictures speak for themselves.

    

Book Launch for The Tom Thomson Mystery Announced.

To learn more about Nancy's books please click on the cover above.  

https://bookswelove.net/authors/canadian-historical-mysteries/

 

I'm happy to announce that the book launch for The Tom Thomson Mystery will be on November 16, 2024 at 1pm MST. The Purple Platypus Bookstore 5003B 50 Avenue in Castor Alberta will be hosting me and I'm thrilled to work with Lynn Sabo, the owner. There will be refreshments and perhaps some swag.

Here is an advance reader's review:

Thomas Thomson was a Canadian artist best known for his landscapes. He spent his summers capturing the scenery in Algonquin Park, Central Ontario, first in oil sketches on small wooden panels and then producing larger works on canvas during the winter in Toronto. His best-known piece of work is The Jack Pine. What isn’t so well known is how Tom died. On July 8^th, 1917, Tom’s canoe was found overturned in Canoe Lake, not far from where he set out. His body wasn’t discovered until July 16, 1917, also floating in the lake close to where the canoe was found 8 days earlier.Was he murdered? Did he commit suicide? Or was his death accidental? Nobody knows.

Nancy M. Bell has skillfully woven the threads of fact and fiction in her rendition of what might have happened. Her protagonist is young Harriet St. George, a very modern-minded young lady who loves escaping her strict family, particularly her stern father. She also summers at Mowat Lodge on Canoe Lake in the Park. She loves to tramp through the woods, canoe, fish, and paint to her heart’s content. Her friend Winnie Trainor, also a summer visitor, is sweet on Tom, while Harriet appreciates his skill as an artist and does her best to emulate him. But then Tom is missing.

Harriet suspects the Lodge managers, Shannon and Annie Fraser, of being involved in illegal activities. Who should she turn to for help? Besides Winne, the Park Ranger, Mark Robinson, is the only person she can share her suspicions with. All the characters are clearly introduced and have their place in the story of the search for Tom. The ending is unexpected and dramatic, and some readers may not see it coming, but it is an entirely satisfying conclusion to a true Canadian mystery

VM Chatham

I thought I'd include a small excerpt as well, just to whet your whistle.

This is the Preface:

Hello, let me introduce myself. I am Harriet Agnes St. George. I’m sure you’re wondering what I have to do with Tom Thomson, or indeed, with the mystery surrounding his death. I’m a painter as well and the wilds of New Ontario, that which you now know of as Algonquin Park, is one of my favourite places to indulge my passion. Being the early 1900s it is unusual for a woman to wander about unchaperoned, and in the bush at that. But let me assure you, I am no ordinary woman. I like to think I’m the forerunner of a new breed of women who will strike out and demand to be allowed to reach their full potential without the mostly unwanted advice of some male figurehead. It is only in April of this year of our Lord, 1917, that women are allowed to vote. About time too, in my opinion.

Let’s just say, it’s a good thing my dear Great Aunt Lois left me a sizable amount of money in her will, in my name and solely in my control. Much to my father’s anger and dismay. But I digress.

Tom Thomson and I used to haunt the same places and tramp the same paths and portages, sometimes alone and sometimes together. Winnie Trainor often accompanied one or both of us, most often Tom as she had a soft spot for the man. Winne wasn’t a painter, but she did love to fish and was always happy to help portage. And she did have a yen for Tom, as I have mentioned.

So, leaving you with this bit of background information, I will endeavor to tell the tale of Tom Thomson’s death and the aftermath as I know it. The subject is still a painful one for me, so as you will soon see, I have set the story down in third person rather than first. It’s a way of distancing myself from the grief and the anger at the treachery that ended Tom’s life and his career.

Chapter One- to give you a taste of Harriet's character

Harriet St. George stepped off the train at the Canoe Lake Station and smoothed down her skirts. Tipping her head back, she took a deep breath of the sharp air of early May. It was so wonderful to be free from the restraints of her rather conservative family. Here at Canoe Lake, Harriet could dispense with the cumbersome skirts and traipse through the bush clad in trousers and a flannel shirt. Not to mention the much more comfortable boots she wore while in the woods, exploring for the perfect site to set up her portable easel and paintbox. She loved the French name for her paintbox: Pochade. It rolled off the tongue so nicely. Harriet giggled and refrained from doing just that. The locals already thought she was a bit strange, well except for Winnie Trainor who also liked to gad about in trousers and spend hours fishing out on the lake.

Shaking her head, Harriet turned to collect her luggage, not much more than the aforementioned paintbox and a duffle stuffed with what she would need for a summer of painting and fishing in the Park. Hopefully, the Frasers of Mowat Lodge had received her telegram, and her room would be ready when she got there. With the paintbox in one hand and the duffle over her shoulder, she went in search of the park ranger, Mark Robinson, who kept track of all comings and goings in the Park and had promised to arrange her transport from the station to the Mowat Lodge.

The duffle was heavier than one would expect, but that weight made Harriet’s heart light. Along with the few clothes stuffed haphazardly in the bottom, most of the room was taken up with her collection of oil paints, brushes, and thin wooden shingles that she intended to use painting en plien aire. She’d copied that trick from a fellow painter she’d met last summer. Tom Thomson tended to paint quickly, but with an accuracy and feel that Harriet envied, any place he found a scene in the woods that spoke to him he captured it on the shingle boards. Only later did he transform the rough painting on the board into a canvas, usually over the winter when he returned to Toronto.

Someday, she promised herself. Someday women artists would be recognized as well as the men. She loved the vibrant new style that was developing in the Canadian art world. Slipping away from the traditional method of reproducing a scene in minute detail. The advent of photography was slowly making that form of art less popular. Thomson’s use of colour and bold strokes of paint intrigued Harriet and she vowed to attempt to hone her own skills this summer.

“Oh, Mark. There you are,” she greeted the tall, thin park ranger who stepped out of the station house.

“Miss St. George.” Mark acknowledged her with a tiny bob of his head.

“Oh, please, it’s Harriet,” she chided him. “Once I ditch these skirts you’ll be hard pressed to tell me from the locals.” Harriet gazed at the thick bush and the pale blue early May sky, the lake where the ice was just beginning to break up. “I do love this place.”

“Harriet, then, if you wish. I’m sure if your father was here he wouldn’t approve of me being so familiar.”

“Pish posh on my father. I’m free for the summer of his stuffy ideas of what is proper for a young lady.” She giggled. “I have my Great Aunt Lois to thank for this freedom. She left me a generous inheritance with strict instructions to use it as my heart desired. And I desire to spend the summer here, in Algonquin Park, painting and fishing. Watching the stars and moon shining over the lake.”

I hope you enjoy the tale. Until next month stay well, stay happy.

Changes ~ Old Dog New Trickls

 

To find out more about Nancy's work click on the cover above.

So changes. I have to say I don't particularly like changes. But right now I'm going through a huge one. The place I've lived in for 30 years has been sold and we're packing up lock stock and barrel and moving to small town Alberta. Castor Alberta to be exact. It will be a big change from living rural with my nearest neighbor being the local coyotes, badgers and gophers. Not to mention the ravens who nest across the road.

We took possession of the small house on April 30th of this year and have been painting and cleaning. It's an older  house, built in 1932, but then I like older  houses. The one I'm leaving is a 1920s vintage. The moving and packing has  put a dent in my writing time but I'll have to get back to it pretty quick once we finally get moved in. Movers are coming on the 14th of May to take the bigger stuff, like my beloved oak antique bookcase, up to the house.

Below are some memories from the house I'm leaving but also leaving behind a piece of my heart. Until next month, be well, be happy.

 

 

 

 

Prized Collection, Or Clutter? By Connie Vines #Collections, #Why I Collect #BWL Insider, #Collection, #Author Hobbies

 Like most authors, I collect books, newspaper clippings, writing supplies, and notes from workshops I've attended.

 

I'm also a big fan of Snoopy and the Peanuts Gang.

However, this collection was not of my own doing. I walked into the school office holding my coffee in a mug, an image of Snoopy at his typewriter. 

Of course, someone asked if I liked Snoopy, and I said yes. That was a huge mistake. Why it became an undying topic of conversation, I do not know. Students gave me stickers, adults gave me books, and my children bought me a lunch pail to take to school. I was also selected as a chaperone during the end-of-the-year field trip to Knotts Berry Farm. Why? Yep, you guessed it--Camp Snoopy!

(This is only a peek at my gifted treasures).

Unlike those who may consider my collectibles clutter. I decided to look into the reason people collect items. 

The psychology behind the reason for collecting:

What is the personality of a collector?

 Collectors tend to have above-average financial resources and better levels of education. Their personalities are characterized by High Openness and low Neuroticism (anxiety, depression, self-doubt).

Is collecting stuff a coping mechanism?

Those who collect may have suffered abandonment issues as children or feel that they lack control over their own lives. By gathering and curating objects, they can reverse that feeling. In particular, those with few mementos of their childhood might compensate by holding on to anything they can.

➤ I found this interesting. My father was a career Naval officer. This meant frequent relocations. This also meant he was deployed (submarines) each year for 9 months or longer. (Three years of sea duty, then 3 years of shore assignment. 

So, are you a collector?

Or is clutter your nemeses?

Please post and let me know if you are a collector. 

Please visit the BWL website for new releases, story snippets, and more information.

Happy Reading?

Connie

https://bookswelove.net/vines-connie/